Today I made my annual trek to the Ruth J. Spear Breast Center for my mammogram to have my chicken cutlets compressed to the width of my iPad. While I understand it’s a first world problem, I wonder, as I do every year, why the sum total diagnosis of a woman’s health is settled by reviewing photographs of her smashed breasts and cells scraped from her vagina. But I digress.
While waiting for my technician I made two observations: Continue reading